Mists of Velvet

he thought absently. She was too perfect; too ethereal. But that body was anything but ethereal and innocent. Hers was a body straight out of Playboy , and suddenly he wanted to tear away the strange-looking gown she wore and reveal her naked form.
    The image hovered in his mind, lingering before his eyes and taunting his mind and body with the temptation to reach out and touch her, to cup one breast in his palm and clasp a hand behind her neck, bringing her forward so he could take her mouth. He had a primal, almost animalistic urge to claim her.
    He realized it was not the first time he had seen her in his dreams. Once before, he’d had a fleeting image of a pale-haired woman riding him. He’d awakened sweaty and hard, shaking with pent-up desire. He’d figured his dirty mind had created both her and the sex dream. But this dream felt different—more intimate and passionate. There was an emotional as well as a visceral sensation running through his body as he watched the dream play out before him.
    Who was this woman? He’d never seen her at the club, and he’d certainly remember her if she’d been one of his one-night stands.
    Maybe Keir was getting lucky in Annwyn and Rhys was witnessing what was going on between them . . . Most likely that was it.
    Rhys could sense and feel his wraith, as Keir could also sense him. Maybe Rhys had stepped into Keir’s thoughts while he was in bed with this woman, or maybe it was just an erotic dream Keir was having.
    But that was the weird thing. He’d felt Keir’s presence before he fell asleep. But now he didn’t. He felt only her— this incredibly hot woman who appeared to be totally into him.
    Pale hands went to the hem of her gown, and slowly she pulled it up, revealing a set of long legs and nicely shaped thighs. He swallowed, waiting for a glimpse of that tantalizing triangle between her thighs. Suddenly he was parched, and as eager as a twelve-year-old at a peep show. She shifted, and the hem skimmed over her backside that was nice and round. He saw his hand reaching out, ready to run his fingers between her thighs and feel her pussy on his fingers—when he was abruptly wakened.
    Instantly alert, Rhys bounded out of his chair, crouched and ready to fight the culprit who had kicked his feet off the desk and so rudely interrupted his X-rated dream. And there he was, standing with arms crossed at the side of his desk. It was Suriel—all six and a half feet of him, wearing his trademark leather, army boots, and a shit-eating grin.
    “Must have been some kind of dream.”
    The bastard knew. Of course he did, Rhys reminded himself. Suriel was a fallen angel. Angels always knew what mortals were thinking and dreaming.
    “Not really,” Suriel responded as he strolled, uninvited, to a chair across from the desk. “It was more what was standing at attention that gave it away.”
    Rhys colored then. Shit. He was still hard and aroused, and angry as hell that Suriel knew of it. The bastard laughed as he sank into a plush velvet wingback. It was an antique, but with typical Suriel indifference, he sprawled out his large frame and swung one leg over the chair’s arm.
    “All alone? Where is your little friend?”
    Keir was hardly little, but Suriel liked to amuse himself by insulting the immortals who staffed the club, as well as Bran and Rhys.
    Rhys sank into his own chair and carefully adjusted his denim-covered cock beneath the privacy of his desk. Man, he was still hard. Forget the dream, he thought, and deal with Suriel. That would call for his undivided attention.
    “You’re like the Grim Reaper, Suriel, popping up at the most inopportune times. I thought you were in hiding, or was that just another one of your lies?”
    Suriel flashed him a false grin. “Hiding with my tail between my legs isn’t my thing. I prefer to fight with guns blazing and balls out.”
    Rhys snorted. Guns? Not Suriel’s choice of weapon, not when he possessed untold powers in his elegant fingertips. Now, balls out, he could buy. Suriel didn’t give a shit about anything, or anyone—most especially the mortals he was supposed to love and guide. In fact, Rhys would bet, Suriel didn’t really care if he himself existed or died. There was something tortured in his black eyes; something that told of unspeakable pain. But Suriel would never admit that.
    “So, where have you been hiding?” Rhys inquired. “Bran has been looking for you.”
    Suriel picked a speck of dirt off his coat